


Slow to Wake, But Hard to Sate

by Ryuutchi



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Collars, Drugged Sex, Forced Orgasm, Implied Pegasus/Seto, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Post-Duelist Kingdom, Sibling Incest, forced penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24942250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuutchi/pseuds/Ryuutchi
Summary: One of the benefits of being rich and having an indulgent older brother was being able to satisfy the occasional whim.(fortitude, Mokuba, fortitude);or,Mokuba takes something Seto doesn't realize he'd ever offered
Relationships: Kaiba Mokuba/Kaiba Seto
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Slow to Wake, But Hard to Sate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moon_Blitz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moon_Blitz/gifts).



> Thanks to Z and I for beta and support.
> 
> “The hunger of a dragon is slow to wake, but hard to sate.” (Ursula K LeGuin)

_**APERITIF** _

The kitchen thrummed with activity as Mokuba pushed open the door, the Kaibas’ personal chef and his assistants working with focused intensity on the food Mokuba had requested be prepared. He'd planned the evening down to the last detail, and he was definitely going to make sure his brother had a nice, relaxing night! 

Mokuba hurried to a rack, examining it for a minute before picking out one of the wines. Seto didn’t like to drink much, and complained about even the amount of champagne served at the fancy parties they sometimes had to attend. But Seto was working so hard on KaibaCorp restructuring that he’d barely come up for air in weeks-- just one glass wouldn’t hurt. Seto liked to sip something bold and red when he didn’t have anything coming up the next day. 

Mokuba had given Seto’s secretary a few extra vacation days to make sure his calendar would be clear.

He carried the wine into the dining room, the table set intimately for the two of them. Seto’s wine glass was etched with a delicate version of the “KC” logo, and Mokuba’s with a similarly designed “MK” monogram. One of the benefits of being rich and having an indulgent older brother was being able to satisfy the occasional whim. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he opened the wine and poured them each half a glass. He stole a sip from his own-- fortitude, Mokuba, fortitude-- and then tugged a brown glass apothecary bottle from his pocket. One of the benefits to being rich... He ran his fingers around the ridges on the outside of the cap hesitantly before opening it. He glanced at the doorway to the kitchen, finding it firmly shut, and tipped the half-full bottle into his brother’s wine glass. He stuffed the empty bottle back in his pocket and added a splash more wine to his own cup to make them look even.

_**ENTREE** _

Seto could feel the prickle of sweat at his temples and at the base of his neck, the first inkling of illness. He huffed, shifting his shoulders in his suit jacket to try and settle himself from the discomfort of fabric dragging against suddenly damp skin. He picked up his wine glass and took a small drink, lingering on the way the flavor hung on his tongue to draw himself back into his body. The action didn’t work as well as he hoped, just making his tongue feel sticky and numb too. He took another drink and licked his lips. 

“Niisama?” Mokuba’s gentle voice startled Seto out of the daze he was in and he shook himself. He was supposed to be spending time with his little brother. Mokuba deserved his attention.

“Mm,” Seto said, “sorry, Mokuba.” He managed a wry smile, just a small twitch of his lips, and Mokuba returned it several-fold, the brightness of his eyes making Seto’s heart clench. “I guess the new C-Suite is taking more out of me than I thought.” He didn’t want to keep Mokuba out of the business side of KaibaCorp anymore, not after his business partnerships put Mokuba in danger. Thankfully, Mokuba seemed content to listen to him over-explain his plans for the new corporate structuring. “So, Tamura-san needs to be moved laterally,” he said, and Mokuba nodded again, chin in his hands. “Otherwise he’s going to kick up a fuss, and we can’t have him going to the press.” Seto paused to take another sip of wine and rubbed his forehead. His head was swimming, and the words he’d been about to say escaped him.

He picked up his utensils to cut a piece of steak. It was perfectly seasoned and perfectly cooked, but he felt detached suddenly from his senses, his head spinning. His hand stuttered, tines of the fork squeaking against the plate. Mokuba half stood, leaning over the table to peer at him. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t work yourself so hard,” Mokuba said, and he was circling the table already.

Seto pushed his chair back, hands up. He could feel himself listing a bit and shook his head. As bad an idea as it was, he took another drink of wine for the cool touch of liquid on his tongue. “It’s, it’s fine,” he said, tripping over his own tongue. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be working so hard.” He stood, wobbled and gathered himself. Mokuba didn’t need to see him like this, he told himself. He’d make it up to his little brother later. “I think I need to rest before I get you sick too.” He brushed his hair back again, feeling the damp strands at his hairline.

But Mokuba was already in front of Seto, leaving him no easy way to flee to his room. He probably would have been too close from the other side of the house. Mokuba, when concerned, had a Seto-radar of several miles. So Seto leaned against his chair and let Mokuba lean up to test his temperature with the back of his palm. “You have a little bit of a fever. Niisama,” he said, lip jutting out in a pout that Seto was weak to at the best of times, “you can’t be working yourself so hard. I don’t want to take over KaibaCorp,” he scolded, taking Seto’s hand and leading his older brother out and down the hall towards Seto’s personal suite. “I’ll bet you didn’t even eat lunch today, and then you drank wine. And I know you didn’t sleep more than three hours. It’s no wonder you don’t feel well.”

Seto let the words drift in one ear and out the other. Mokuba was right-- he didn’t feel well. He hadn’t gotten much sleep lately, too fixated on closing corporate loopholes left over from Gozaburou and the Big Five. It wasn’t like he needed to pay attention to get back to his rooms. 

A few minutes later, the pair tumbled into Seto’s rooms. Mokuba paused by the door to kick off his shoes, but Seto, too tired by now to think much beyond getting to the bed, drifted directly to his bedroom and settled onto the tall four-poster bed fully clothed. He sat, eyes half shut, listening to Mokuba shuffle around in the sitting room. He needed to rest, which meant he needed to get undressed. Seto commanded himself to move and lifted his heavy arms to shrug out of his jacket, dropping it in a graceless puddle on the floor.

“Okay, so I’m going to get you a glass of water and--,” Mokuba’s words trailed off and Seto blinked open his eyes to watch his little brother cross the room in swift steps. “I was going to say I was going back to my room,” Mokuba said, looking up into Seto’s eyes with a worried look. 

Seto nodded and murmured an acknowledgement, reaching out to ruffle Mokuba’s hair. He tangled his fingers in the soft locks and Mokuba tipped his head happily into the touch for a moment before dropping suddenly to his knees. 

Seto jolted, a finger of surprise running up his spine. “What are you doing?” 

He needn’t have asked. Mokuba made quick work of Seto’s loafers, tugging them off and setting them neatly to the side. He patted Seto’s foot like it was a particularly well-behaved pet and stood, scooping the suit jacket up and folding it to hang over the back of a chair. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Seto protested. This was a weakness Mokuba didn’t need to see. Just because his little brother knew that Seto overworked himself, that didn’t mean Seto wanted Mokuba to see the after effects. “Go finish dinner and have fun.” He scooted up the bed, forcing strength into tired muscles. 

Still his little brother followed him, climbing up onto the bed beside Seto. “I don’t want to. You take care of me when I’m sick. I should get to help you!” Mokuba said. That pout was back and Seto felt his resolve crumble under the onslaught, leaving him with a soft, warming feeling in the pit of his stomach. If Seto could smile, really smile anymore, he would have. 

Mokuba’s small hands were against his shoulders, running over the breadth of them, pressing down on tense muscles until Seto groaned. His fingers were careful at first, and then harder and Seto couldn’t help a small snort under his breath. Mokuba was just too small to get out any of Seto’s real knots. Mokuba seemed to come to the same realization because the pressure relented in favor of light strokes down his collarbone until Mokuba’s hands came to the buttons of Seto’s shirt. Methodically, Mokuba unfastened his older brother’s shirt and pushed it down Seto’s arms. It only took a little bit of encouragement for Seto to shrug out of it entirely.

The older boy was feeling too floaty to comment, letting his brother peel off his undershirt and push him to lean back against the pillows. The uncomfortable prickle of sweat and vertigo had mellowed as Seto sank back into the cool cotton sheets. He still felt feverish, but somehow Mokuba’s body heat was comforting rather than overwhelming. He reached out to cup Mokuba’s cheek and licked his lips, letting the urge to pull Mokuba closer wash over him. Mokuba leaned against him, smelling of floral body wash and something that Seto couldn’t identify but made him relax further.

Seto drifted like that, flitting in and out of consciousness, time dilating and contracting when Mokuba shifted. He half-woke when Mokuba’s warmth disappeared briefly, muttering his discontent. His answer was a childish giggle and the return of the longed-for warmth. 

An indeterminate period of time later, Mokuba shook his shoulder. “Niisama,” he said in Seto’s ear.

Seto groaned. He felt too good to move, like the heat had suffused his body leaving him oversensitive and touch-starved. 

“Niisama,” Mokuba repeated, and Seto forced open his eyes, blinking rapidly to focus on the dark blur which was his younger brother. Mokuba was sat back, straddling Seto’s thigh, something thin and disturbingly familiar cradled in his hands. “Wake up. I have something for you.” He called for Seto again, letting a small whine into his tone that Seto had no defense against.

It took a moment for Seto to identify the item, bigger in Mokuba’s hands than it had in anothers’. When recognition finally hit, Seto let out a pained sound that he couldn’t swallow in time. A collar. It couldn’t have been the one Gozaburo made him wear. He’d hidden Gozaburo’s horrors from Mokuba, directing all of the old man’s attention to himself. That collar would be smaller now, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t fit him, surely. “Wh-what?” Seto’s voice was a croak.

Mokuba held the collar up. No, it wasn’t Gozaburo’s, that much was obvious. It was thinner, sleeker than the bulky dog’s collar that his adopted father forced him to wear. This was simple black leather with an unadorned ring at the center, and not one Seto remembered. 

“I found it at Duelist Kingdom,” Mokuba said conversationally. “It was in Pegasus’ rooms.” He unfastened the buckle, letting the length of it hang between thin fingers. Seto winced at the way the ring clinked as it moved. Seto watched the motion of its swinging, and Mokuba lifted it with a pleased smile. “At the end of the video of your duel with Pegasus,” he said, either not noticing or ignoring the flinch at the words, “he said something funny. About taking you back to his bedroom. So I went to look.” Mokuba was bouncing a little, and his nerves might have been amusing in another situation, but not here. Not about this. 

“This,” Mokuba said, lifting the collar in both hands, a sweet frown creasing his face, “I think this is what he made you wear.” 

Wordlessly, Seto shook his head. Maybe Pegasus had made him wear such a thing, but he didn’t want to think about anything like that. He could already imagine the horrible weight around his neck. “Mokuba, no,” he said, resting his hands on the curve of Mokuba’s waist. The oversensitivity and worry sent a wash of disorientation through him.

Dropping one hand to his side to stroke Seto’s fingers, Mokuba played with the collar with the other hand, watching Seto watch the awful strip of leather turn. “Don’t worry, niisama, I have an idea. It will make you feel better-- like, you don’t belong to him. I’ll make this feel good.”

Seto’s hands tensed on Mokuba’s hips. “No,” he repeated, but other words failed him. “I don’t-- no, Mokuba,” he said again. But Mokuba didn’t move when Seto pressed against his hips. He tried to wriggle out from under his little brother, but Mokuba rode the syrup-slow roll of Seto’s body easily. Seto’s arms tensed again, but even the creeping dread couldn’t make Seto want to push his brother away. 

His fingers clenched and unclenched in the fabric of Mokuba’s trousers.

Ignoring his brother’s movements, Mokuba slid forward, taking the collar in both hands. His fingers nervously ran over the shiny buckle when he held it up again, close enough that Seto could smell the faint tang of leather. It cut through the exhausted haze, a scent that burrowed deep into his subconscious and made him let out an embarrassing half-sob. He shook his head again, hands flexing. One firm motion and Mokuba could be shoved off of him. But he didn’t, watching in horrified fascination as his younger brother brought the collar to his neck. 

“You don’t belong to him,” Mokuba started, his sweet, lilting voice enough to almost lull Seto back into his haze. But the supple leather brushed his Adam's apple and Seto jerked, falling back into a stack of pillows, and Mokuba knelt over him. The collar pressed harder into his throat with the fall, and Mokuba’s eyes were alight with something unrecognizable. “You don’t. You’re Seto Kaiba, one of the best duelists in the world. Pegasus,” he said, emphasizing each word, “can’t have you.” That said he leaned forward, trusting Seto’s hands and chest to keep him upright, and wrapped the collar around Seto’s neck, fastening the buckle with a muted clink that Seto felt reverberate down his spine.

Seto couldn’t speak. His mind had slowed down so that the only things he could think about were the immediate sensations. Leather, tight around his throat. A small, warm body against him. The laxness of his limbs. The heat roiling through his body, leaving him dazed and sensitive. The adrenaline pumping through his veins as the collar choked him, despite being loose enough for Mokuba to carefully slide two fingers beneath. Fingers against his throat. His heart tried to beat faster, spurred by sudden-mounting panic, but the laxity and heat weighed him down. The sensation was strange, all his nervous energy and fighting instinct buried deep beneath the enforced relaxation. His body wanted to tremble, his muscles trying desperately to wind tight, but instead it settled in his head, his vision whirling as another wave of dizziness hit him.

He caught a high-pitched, terrified sound behind his tongue, swallowing it down again. If he let on that he was scared-- Seto felt the weight of his adoptive father’s stiletto-sharp glower, those dark eyes that demanded too much. Remembered the heft of the unyielding collar, made for an attack animal that needed to be trained. The pressure around his neck. He’d put the collar on himself when Gozaburo demanded it. A trained animal was allowed no emotions of its own. Only his body existed. 

Gozaburo’s intangible fury was joined by the brush of cotton and silk against Seto’s back, phantom fingers gliding down the back of Seto’s neck. They lingered and Seto shifted against the bed, unsettled. They were familiar, so familiar, an overly intimate touch locking the collar around his throat. It was only the way they drifted down his sides and chest, teasing like the thought he was playing that made his mind whirl. Pegasus. Pegasus’ long, delicate fingers, playing across his insensible body like an instrument. 

It was too much for Seto and he whined, shaking. His hands ran over Mokuba’s thighs, lean muscle under expensive cotton and clutched. Mokuba was the point. Pegasus and Gozaburo only mattered for Mokuba. That he’d let them lay hands on him for Mokuba.

“Touch me,” Seto murmured, feeling delirious. Only where Mokuba’s body rested against him did Pegasus avoid. Only Mokuba's face pressed to his clavicle made Gozaburo look away. 

Mokuba made a pleased sound, his hands displacing Pegasus’ when they roamed over Seto’s shoulder and down his chest. Seto couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh as Mokuba brushed away the phantom touch, clutching his younger brother’s thighs like he’d fly away if he didn’t. “Oh, hold on,” Mokuba said. He moved to straddle Seto’s lap, letting his hands drift where they wanted. With the new, more stable seating, it was easier to touch Seto. His small hands cupped the small curve of Seto’s pecs, the tip of his fingers brushing down on Seto’s nipples. “This is better, right?” He cuddled up against Seto, dropping a kiss to one bicep. “Just relax and I’ll make you feel really good.” 

It wasn’t that Mokuba was wrong-- he was right. Seto was always comforted by his brother’s presence, by holding him close. The lassitude heightened it, unable to move or reciprocate, Seto just shivered and felt as Mokuba whispered affirmations, kissing and groping his chest with appreciative hands.

“You’re so handsome, niisama,” Mokuba mumbled, biting gently down on Seto’s nipple and tugging with his teeth. Seto couldn’t hold back the low sound at the sick heat that sparked through his body from Mokuba’s actions. “I hate that someone that awful had their hands on you.” Seto parted his lips to say something, but could only make a low hitched sound when Mokuba turned his attention to his other nipple, licking and lavishing it with affection too. He didn’t remember Pegasus touching him-- he didn’t want to remember, so he arched his chest instead.

At that it seemed like Mokuba’s restraint crumbled. He pressed both hands on Seto’s chest and pushed him back with strength that Seto couldn’t muster, following to press himself chest-to-chest with his elder brother. Mokuba’s breath was a feather against Seto’s lips, but the smaller boy instead peppered Seto’s chest and neck with open-mouthed kisses that were hard enough to be nearly painful except for the fact that they weren’t. The pain was matched by slow washes of pleasure lighting up his nerves and pooling in his belly. Seto could hear his own harsh panting as his world narrowed to Mokuba’s body, his hands, his mouth. He shuddered, hips twitching up. Mokuba was sitting too far forward now for Seto to be able to grind against him, even if he could have brought himself to it, but he couldn’t stop himself from arching. “Mmo--mokuba,” he stammered, another shiver running through him as Mokuba pinched a nipple and bit down on his shoulder, sending another rush of scorching heat through him. “I can’t. This. Mokuba,” he said again.

“Yes?” Mokuba squirmed and brushed his lips up the side of Seto’s neck until he reached the smooth leather of the collar. It was rare for Seto to lose control so completely. They both knew that. Seto swallowed a groan when Mokuba’s lips captured his earlobe. “What’s wrong?”  
Seto tried to answer, but words slipped away in favor of the awful driving heat. Each bite and kiss sent his mind further into blank desperation, hips kicking up sluggishly. 

Mokuba hummed, and tangled a hand in Seto’s hair, jerking his head to the side with a firm motion that made Seto _whine_. He didn’t like being held down, he didn’t like-- Mokuba bit him, just below the collar, where a bruise would dig in, and all Seto could do was sob as stars burst behind his eyes and he came in his pants, untouched.

His head dropped back, chest heaving as he tried to get enough air into his overwhelmed body. Mokuba sat back, strands of hair falling into his face and making him look coy. Seto’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again. It was too much to think about. 

_**MAIN DISH** _

The slight weight pulled away from Seto, leaving him cold and bereft, and he tried to sit up. “That. Mokuba, you should go back to your room,” he said, forming the words carefully, voice hoarse. “I need to sleep. Something’s wrong. Tamura, at lunch, maybe slipped me something.” His sentences felt disjointed, like he knew the entirety of the answer but couldn’t look at it head on.

Mokuba settled beside his brother, running a soothing hand down his stomach. “It’s okay. I know that sometimes when a day’s been really overwhelming, you just need to relieve the stress. It’s fine, niisama, I promise. Let me help you get out of your dirty pants.” And then Mokuba’s hands were on his waistband, fumbling to unfasten the button and fly. 

Trying to knock Mokuba’s hands away without rejecting him was impossible. “I’m. I need to sleep whatever it is off. If I don’t wake up in eight hours, call the doctor.” He sucked in a deep breath. The orgasm had robbed him of the rest of his strength, so he relented. Mokuba managed to get Seto’s pants off with a minimum of Seto having to move. When he went to take off Seto’s underwear, though, he had to curve his fingers under Seto’s ass, urging him to arch a little. It was easier to do as Mokuba directed, and soon Seto was drifting back into sleep while Mokuba wiped him down with a couple of tissues. “Go eat and get some rest,” he mumbled. “I need to sleep off what-- whatever Tamura drugged me with.” He licked his lips, hoping that he wasn’t slurring too badly, even though his tongue felt thick.

Mokuba giggled and climbed into the bed. It was more than big enough for the both of them, although Seto had never let Mokuba sleep there with him. “Don’t be paranoid, niisama. There’s no reason to think you were drugged. You’ve just been working day and night.” Cool fingers brushed across Seto’s forehead and he tilted his head into the touch. “I want to stay with you. You’re always working hard, and I get scared that you’ll work so hard you’ll hurt yourself or forget about me.” 

Seto huffed, forcing heavy eyelids open. He regarded his younger brother blearily, blinking a few times. “Never,” he said. Mokuba slid into the bed next to him again, and Seto’s burning skin verified what his unfocused eyes had told him. That Mokuba was naked, a slender paleness and refreshing scent that cooled Seto’s feverish body. “Please, Mokuba,” he tried again, but his energy was running out.

Small hands traced gently over Seto’s chest, flexing to grope the breadth of the muscle and working it like a massage therapist. Seto moaned involuntarily at the pressure of Mokuba’s palms against tense muscle. Mokuba’s fingers caught a nipple, pinching meanly, and the dual sensations made Seto tremble as sparks of hard-edged pleasure shot through his core. 

The longer they lay there, Mokuba draped half-off his brother’s side so that he could reach as much of Seto as possible, hands rubbing and prodding, the more Seto found himself giving in to the exhaustion. He was working too hard. He didn’t want to worry Mokuba so much, and it seemed to be making Mokuba feel better to touch him. He sighed, letting himself drift into a soft cotton half-awake state.

Time passed strangely like that, warm and pleasant. Seto would drift off to Mokuba’s hands on his biceps and wake to fingers working the tense muscles of his thighs, and drift off again as the younger man drew his hands up Seto’s stomach…

Some time later, those hands slid from Seto’s hips to his thighs. And from there a touch, so light Seto thought for a moment it was the beginning of another dream, up his dick. Small, soft hands wrapped around it, a sudden firm stroke that had Seto’s breath coming in gasps. He tried to grasp for consciousness, to understand the curling dread, but that touch went light again. Seto shivered, a long wave of unpleasant sensation that dragged him back into the floating half-consciousness. The hands around his cock came and went, never touching quite enough to bring him back to wakefulness or even let him be sure it wasn’t just some phantom of sleep while all Mokuba did was touch him innocently.

He was simultaneously oversensitized and unsure if he’d even been handled. “Mo-mokuba,” he said, the syllables slow as syrup, “please.” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for now. Everything had drifted from him but the small, burning presence pressed against his side. “I don’t… I. Please.” Were his hips thrusting up? They wanted to, but he couldn’t tell. His muscles were too relaxed. 

Mokuba giggled. “You only have to ask, niisama. I promise I’ll make you feel good,” he said, and then he was straddling Seto’s lap, lithe and silken and so much a dream that Seto curled his hands around Mokuba’s ankles, half expecting them to dissolve back into dream stuff. They didn’t, and he held on to them as the one indicator of reality he had. Mokuba’s thighs were scorching against Seto’s bare skin.

Both small hands wrapped around his cock then, starting up a twisting rhythm that had Seto’s head thumping back with a gasp. Distantly, he heard his brother laugh, and one hand left to grab Seto’s hip for balance. 

“Be careful or I’ll fall!” Mokuba swatted Seto’s hip gently, and then his second hand was back on Seto’s dick. 

The rush of sensation overloaded Seto’s strung out senses. He thought he was speaking in a mindless babble that he had no control over, all incoherent pleas for something he’d never before thought to ask for. Not from Gozaburo, or from Pegasus. Only from Mokuba.

If Mokuba responded, it was lost in the rush. He clenched his thighs, though, riding the shuddering movements of Seto’s hips. His hands ran slowly but more firmly now up Seto’s dick. He pressed a thumb to the slit, playing with the wetness there that Seto only recognized when Mokuba used it to slick his hands. The slickness of his precome alleviated some of the dry friction and Mokuba seemed to enjoy smearing it around, rubbing it into Seto’s cock in slow circles. 

After an indescribable stretch of time where Seto felt every stroke as a new revelation of overwhelming sensation, Mokuba pulled his hands away. He patted Seto’s stomach in a soothing gesture that did nothing to soothe Seto. 

“I think niisama’s ready,” Mokuba mumbled, staring down at Seto’s lap. Seto blinked at him, his only response a slurred sound of negation. “I am too,” he comforted, although Seto wasn’t entirely certain what that meant. Not until Mokuba shuffled forward, rocking onto his knees and lining himself up.

When Mokuba drove down, Seto’s back arched despite the enforced relaxation and he wailed. Mokuba was scorching hot inside, and so tight Seto thought he was losing his mind. His little brother was small-- so small, and Mokuba was taking his time working himself open. 

Seto clutched at Mokuba-- his ankles pressed to either side of Seto’s hips and the only part that Seto could hold to prove that the tight press around him was real. It was real. Mokuba’s brows pulled together in a mou of concentration and he slid another few centimeters down on Seto’s cock. He made a sweet little sound of victory, clenching around the tip of Seto’s dick in a way that made the older man see stars. Mokuba’s thighs flexed and he rocked up and down, trying to get comfortable. Every thrust brought him down further until Seto was finally, fully seated inside him.

Even the slightest motion sent needle-sharp pleasure through every vein. Seto whined, trying not to respond and failing. His hips jerked up involuntarily, meeting Mokuba’s rhythm with his own pathetic movements.

That’s when Mokuba reached and wrapped his small hands around the supple leather collar Seto had almost forgotten he was wearing and _squeezed_.

If what Seto experienced then was an orgasm, it was unlike any he’d ever experienced. The pleasure of Mokuba hot and wet and perfect around him was met with sudden roiled terror. His head fell back, baring his throat as he choked his way through the crest of white-hot desperation.

Even as the pleasure descended into oversensitivity and wet cheeks that Seto could only vaguely recognize as tear-stained, Mokuba kept moving, chasing his own pleasure. Eyes fluttering open, Seto marveled at how elegant Mokuba looked like this, back curved in a delicate arch. His lips were bitten pink, and a pink flush colored his cheeks and down his chest. Their eyes met, Mokuba’s dark and satisfied gaze to Seto’s hazy blue. Seto’s hands squeezed around Mokuba’s ankles and he closed his eyes, letting his little brother take what he wanted. Mokuba’s breath hitched, and he thrust down hard, hips stuttering as he spilled onto his brother’s chest. 

The last of his energy spent, Seto slid into unconsciousness.

**_FINALE_ **

When sunlight filtered through the high windows to wake Seto, he moaned and curled around a pillow. The previous night was a blur. His head ached. His body throbbed dully. A gentle breeze sent the curtains whispering and cooled his bare back. Seto took a deep breath and rolled over, stretching his limbs gingerly. It wouldn’t do to laze in bed, no matter how crappy he felt. 

On his bedside sat a tall glass of water, still beaded with condensation. He picked it up, enjoying the chill water against his skin. After draining the glass, Seto felt marginally more human, pounding headache receding into background noise.

His door swung open, and Mokuba stood in the doorway with a tray balanced in his hands. “Good morning,” he greeted with a smile. “Since you weren’t feeling good last night, I thought you might like breakfast in bed.” Mokuba kicked the door shut with a heel and crossed the room to set the legs of the bed tray straddling Seto’s lap. Scents of grilled fish, egg, and miso wafted up, and Seto’s stomach grumbled loudly. Mokuba giggled.

Seto ducked his head, hiding his own smile as the last confusing wisps of lingering dread faded. He reached for the pot of green tea and Mokuba settled by his feet, petting Seto’s ankle like a particularly well-behaved pet.


End file.
